The Tell
by Connell
Summary: Ryan spends a restless night ruminating on his place in the Cohen household. Rated "R" for language only.


Okay, so again, a huge "thank you" to **_crashcmb_**, who bizarrely believed in me when I pitched this idea several weeks ago and didn't lose faith through a few craptastically spectacular false starts. She always has that perfect word, line or thought to tie up a sentence, paragraph or story that just bugs.

Because she's wonderful.

Disclaimer: "The OC" and its characters belong to Schwartz & Co.

**The Tell**

Ryan was exhausted. He was spent, mentally and physically. The emotional roller-coaster he'd been riding the past few weeks had finally caught up with him and all he felt like doing was crashing. All he'd wanted to do when he'd come home tonight was to sprawl out on his bed and let unconsciousness sweep him away. To not have to relive those frightening moments in the penthouse when he'd been entirely convinced that Oliver was about to take Marissa's life—to not have to remember how close Oliver had come to taking his own.

But, Seth was here. Propped up on the bed. Reading _The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay_. A book he'd loaned to Ryan months before—a book Ryan hadn't gotten around to reading quite yet.

"_It's a good story, Ryan. It's the tale of two young men who couldn't be more different. But—they learn to overcome their differences. They team up and essentially become brothers, not unlike you and me—except I blew it…_"

Long after Seth had spun his latest chapter in the Seth/Anna/Summer saga, pretended to listen to what little advice Ryan had to offer and shuffled back to the main house, his words still echoed in Ryan's head—and helped keep the sleep that he so desperately needed from overtaking him.

To Ryan, Seth's version of brotherhood was laughable. Or it would be, if he wasn't so goddamned sincere. Seth's romanticized vision was downright delusional. No doubt originating from the fiction in which he'd immersed himself and his intense neediness. The cloak of loneliness that Seth wore when they'd first met was almost as concrete an accessory as Ryan's own wristcuff. But, unlike Ryan's wristcuff, it had been cast off at some point in the past several months as Seth became more comfortable with Newport, with Harbor, and with himself.

Unfortunately, Ryan knew the reality of having a brother and that Trey wasn't exactly the ideal Seth had in mind when he was weaving his quixotic tales of an imagined bond and elevating those who possessed it to almost superhuman proportions.

"_I do think from now on, though, we've gotta stick together—because, united, we're unstoppable, but divided, it's like…_"

"_People get shot._"

"_That's what I'm saying._"

Well, tonight, at least nobody got shot. Not that the potential wasn't there.

_Christ._

Ryan exhaled deeply and turned heavily on his side, desperately hoping that movement alone would serve to deter the unwelcome "_what ifs_" that were starting to take over again. When that didn't work, he ground his thumb and forefinger roughly into the inside corners of his eyes and tried to clear his mind by sheer force of will. A glance at the clock to his right showed that it was already after three o'clock, but the visualizations of Marissa's blood splattered in angry strokes across Oliver's gray t-shirt—of Oliver—simpering and pathetic as he bit down on the barrel of the gun and actually pulled the trigger—were still there—waiting in the darkness—reemerging in graphic detail every time he closed his eyes.

Grunting in frustration, Ryan sat up, pulled the pillows behind him and slumped over, his hands palming the back of his head—fingers interlaced—elbows propped on his knees. He craved a cigarette with every fiber of his being and the gum she'd left on the bedside table, next to the telephone, in anticipation of his addiction rearing its ugly head after the events of tonight, and the culmination of the last several weeks—while appreciated, didn't do him a goddamned bit of good. Because what he needed was nicotine, not a fucking Chiclet.

With his eyes open, the gory images of an Oliver-induced bloodbath slowly faded back into the shadowy recesses of his mind, and Ryan couldn't help but think again of Seth's persistent, if misguided attempts to make their relationship something that it was not. Seth was a good friend. Maybe even the best friend Ryan'd ever had. But, he wasn't Ryan's brother. Not by a long shot. Lord knows, if it was possible to choose your own brother and those choices were limited to Trey or Seth? Yeah. Seth would win, hands down. Hell, Trey wouldn't even run a respectable second.

But, that's not how it worked. You couldn't handpick your family—not really. If there was one thing that this past month had taught him—that was pretty much it. Because, the Cohens _had_ chosen him—and Ryan had chosen them right back. Not that any of that had made a shit's bit of difference when it came right down to it. When he really needed somebody in his corner—when he really needed someone to "_have his back_," as Seth would put it—he had no one. No one believed him. No one believed _in _him. No one, but Luke. And that was pretty goddamned pitiful. Hell, even his so-called girlfriend had called him pathetic.

To be fair, Ryan knew that his unwillingness to talk about the root of his suspicions played its own part in escalating the situation. Sandy had tried to get him to open up on numerous occasions. But, that's not how Ryan worked. He was reluctant to rely on anyone else to take care of matters he thought he should handle on his own—and he didn't know the right combination of words to adequately convey his conviction that there was something terribly "off" about Oliver. Ryan had sensed that Oliver's internal wiring was all fucked up—his neurons were misfiring—that he was dangerously close to meltdown. But, how Ryan _knew_ any of this was impossible for him to explain. Because, it all came down to a feeling. And if Ryan was sure of anything, it was that he did not posses the capacity to express his feelings verbally—or much at all. He never had. And without the precise wording, he had nothing.

Because, that's the way these people operated. With them, it was all about the talking. And, in an arena in which winning and losing was determined solely by the power of oral persuasion, well then Ryan just didn't think he could compete. Not that he hadn't tried. He'd talked to all of them—Sandy, Kirsten, Seth, Marissa, Dr. Kim, even Julie Fucking Cooper—and tried to make them see the craziness in Oliver that was so painfully obvious to him. But, for all his work, he'd accomplished nothing—well, nothing more than to cement his status even more decisively as Newport's most pathetic misfit—the miscreant who'd somehow scammed his way into residing within the town's most privileged confines. That kid Dr. Kim had bent over backwards to accommodate, despite his abysmal school records, glaring disciplinary problems and criminal record. The ungrateful thug from Chino the Cohens had taken in—the jealous, hotheaded kid who threw indiscriminate punches—the boy who'd broken into the records room at Harbor and physically attacked one of their own.

So, he understood the lectures from Sandy. The grounding. The look of disappointment as he was spotted trying to convince an angry and impulsive Marissa not to flee to Oliver's. Sandy's silent conveyance of his total exasperation with Ryan, his utter frustration with the entire situation, just about every time their paths had occasion to cross in the Cohen home.

The _Cohen home_. Not since his first few weeks in Newport had those words been so fitting. Not since the first few weeks had the main house felt so foreign, so cold—or had he been such a guest within its walls. An unwelcome one at that. He'd begun to feel like he had that first night, as they were standing in the pool house. That big, glass, sterile space. Decorated in the tacky wicker furniture. Its utility seemingly limited to the sole purpose of storing unwanted paraphernalia. Discarded crap like the bikes that had been propped up against the wall—their state of neglect evident the way their chains hung, dried out, rusted and off gear.

Ryan remembered the palpable tension that had emanated from Kirsten that night. He also remembered how uncomfortable he'd been under the weight of her barely repressed hostility—how he'd pretended that it was caused by the imaginary heft of his backpack as he'd shifted awkwardly, readjusting the strap. How he'd tried to disarm her with politeness. Hoping against hope that his sincerity would come across in his tone. And, how he'd realized just how miserably he'd failed, in the way she kept clasping her hands together nervously, and in the way she couldn't help herself from dropping her gaze before meeting his own.

It's not like he blamed any of them. Not really. Despite Sandy's confident assurances from earlier that evening, Ryan still wasn't entirely convinced that Harbor was going to drop the B&E charges, or the assault on Oliver. He'd already been suspended. He was still facing expulsion. If Harbor wanted to play hardball, all it had to do was report his violations to his probation officer. And this…everything…the whole last six months would be for nothing. He'd be back in Chino—back in juvie, to serve out the rest of his time—along with whatever other sentences they tacked on for the new charges. He knew he'd made Sandy's job infinitely more difficult. Not that Sandy wasn't a good lawyer. Sandy was a great lawyer. But, nobody was that good. And, if he was sent back, he certainly had no delusions that Newport—or the Cohens—would be waiting for him this time.

_Christ_.

That was the point, though, wasn't it? The point Seth had unwittingly made with his ridiculous reference to that glorified comic book. Because—because the Cohens weren't family. Oh, they were his guardians. Sure. At least for now. But, that could always change. A trip to social services—the stroke of a pen—and as easily as it had been granted—the guardianship could be terminated. But, family? Family was forever. He had a family. As shitty as they were. He had a mother, a father and a brother. And they weren't Kirsten, Sandy or Seth. As much as he wished otherwise.

And, as much as Seth did too. Or, as much as Seth wanted it more. Ryan wasn't stupid. He knew that Seth eagerly awaited the day he would refer to him as a brother. And, he knew that to Seth, it must sometimes seem like he was holding back merely out of spite. Because—really, it was such a simple thing. A word—seven letters long. One of many. In Seth's world, words were abundant—disposable—a casual commodity. So unlike Ryan's world. Where they—well—they just weren't. Which was stupid. Idiotic.

Moving again in a frantic, but ultimately futile attempt to lessen the tension that was building within him, Ryan straightened, leaned back on the pillows, stretched his legs and stared straight ahead. He'd be burning a hole into the darkened forms of the drawn blinds, if they'd registered at all. He knew he could make his best friend absurdly happy just by uttering a few small words. One, really. But, he also knew he wouldn't—that he couldn't. Because that particular word came with too many goddamned strings attached. He already had a brother. Trey. Trey was his brother.

Of course Trey was also a petty thug and a loser. A petty thug and a loser who—when amped or juiced—could make Oliver look like the poster child for mental health. But, _Jesus_, if Seth hadn't hit on something tonight. Something that was keeping Ryan awake. Well, something besides the visions of gray matter splattered across a t-shirt—sprayed across a penthouse suite. Because, that was something else that Ryan knew with absolute certainty. _Trey would have had his back_. Hell, it wasn't even a question. Not that Trey would have cared enough to question the details before positioning himself solidly in his brother's corner. Or that right or wrong would have even figured into the equation. He'd have blindly believed Ryan—blindly believed _in_ Ryan. Or—or if truth be told, it wouldn't even have mattered. Trey wouldn't have needed an excuse to pound the living shit out of an arrogant rich little dickweed like Oliver—hell, he'd have relished the job.

Ryan stared ruefully at the bedside table. At the gum she'd left. The gum he hadn't touched. The gum that didn't do him one iota of fucking good. He didn't chew gum. But, between the useless pack of Chiclets she'd left and Seth's stupid comment about a book that Ryan hadn't even bothered to read, he suddenly found himself in the extremely unexpected and uncomfortable position of missing his brother with an intensity that surprised him.

There weren't many times he missed Trey. Whole days—weeks even—went by without him giving his older brother much more than a passing thought. He'd just about had it with him, anyway. He was so tired of the countless ways Trey invented for the seemingly singular purpose of bringing him down—the days his brother convinced him to skip school because he was bored and wanted Ryan's company; the inane, but bloody fights they'd gotten into just wasting idle time in the local arcade; the car boost that had led to his initial stay in juvie; the first goddamned holiday in memory that might have been pretty fucking okay if Trey hadn't talked him into visiting him in Chino—guilted him into delivering that stolen car to Gattas.

And what really chapped Ryan's balls was that it wasn't even what would have been his unconditional support over the Oliver debacle that was getting to him at this moment. It was the gum. _Christ_! The fucking gum. Because, Trey would have been able to figure all of this out months ago. He'd have known exactly what Ryan was doing to give himself away, told Ryan how to stop it and Ryan'd be out in the back of the pool house right now drawing in as much nicotine as his lungs could take, before spewing it out in a cloud so thick that it would obscure the Cohens' mansion entirely. Instead, he was sitting inside, staring daggers at a pack of fucking Chiclets.

Ryan absently reached out and fingered the gum. When that didn't give him any satisfaction, he picked it up and threw it, sidearm, as hard as he could. Unfortunately, the soft thump it made when it hit the shade covering one of the pool house doors didn't do a damn thing for him, either.

There wasn't much that his older brother did well. Hardly anything came to mind. Nothing legal, anyway. But, Trey was an absolute master at spotting the tell. In Ryan and in others. It probably had something to do with being a good liar—and Trey was a damned good liar. He always had been. It was probably the one thing at which he'd naturally excelled. The only thing he could do better than his little brother.

It had come in handy plenty of times as the Atwood boys had teamed up to hustle strangers twice their age. They'd enticed more than a few victims who'd made the unlucky mistake of wandering into _O'Shea's_ on a payday by playing pool, pretending to drink, conversing boisterously and getting just a little more clumsy with each passing round.

What their carefully chosen mark didn't know was that Trey was deadly with a pool cue, that he'd taught his little brother almost everything he knew, and that Sammy O'Shea would never serve either boy an illegal drink. Sammy'd "dated" Dawn a million years ago. After he'd employed her. Before he'd fired her. And, despite having ended his relationship with their mother, he'd continued to harbor a fondness for both of her kids. So, against his better judgment, he'd let them come in—when either or both should be in school—or either or both should be in bed. He'd let them play pool. He'd served them free seltzer all night long—in a rock glass and on ice. Hell, he'd even added a twist of lime and a swizzle stick.

And, he'd let them take more than one sucker for a ride. Trey was always in charge of baiting the hook. He'd make his way over to the bar and offer the intended mark just the slightest glimpse of a thick wad of money as he shoved his fist deep into the front pocket of his jeans and awkwardly, but carefully, tried to peel off the top bill without removing the rest—he'd sneak a quick, furtive, glance to make sure nobody noticed—and offer an off-centered, slightly uncomfortable grin to the stranger who'd caught his eye. He'd be quick to strike up a conversation with the stranger while waiting for Sammy to pour the seltzer, diverting his victim's attention away from how Sammy never reached for the bottle of vodka, while also offering up the little tidbit about how his buddy and he were just unceremoniously laid off with only a few days' worth of severance—slurring ever so slightly when he cussed out "that motherfucking little peckerhead" of a foreman who was sorely mistaken if he thought he'd seen the last of Raymond or Brian.

Raymond and Brian. Their pseudonyms chosen simply because an errant fuck-up would never be noticed over the pool hall's cacophonic din. Sometime later, if Trey was successful, the mark would make his own way over to the table and watch the boys play for a few rounds, and he would be the one to suggest joining in on a game. The three of them would alternate playing a few rounds, in which the Atwood boys would win some—and some they'd lose. Ryan would lose a little more often than Trey. They'd patiently bide their time until their victim challenged the weaker of the two to a money round. Then another. And, once the game was on and during the early going—when Ryan was intentionally losing just a little more than he was winning—Trey'd hang back and observe. He'd watch for the tell, so that he could get them the hell out of there if they'd misidentified the mark—if they were the ones getting hustled by their patsy.

If Trey turned to Ryan, nudged him, pointed and asked, "_Dude, ain't that the howler you banged at Tony's?_" Ryan would know it was time to throw the final game, shake his head to an offer of a rematch, pay off the winner and claim that he had to jet—it was time to call it a night. Of course, none of this would be any fun for Trey, unless he could single out the _butt-ugliest_ girl he could find in the place. He'd point right at her and ask Ryan about his alleged conquest with a straight face and in a deadpanned voice—the epitome of sincerity. And, to Trey, the older the hag, the bigger the ass, the fewer the teeth, the hairier the upper lip, the more noticeable the limp. Well, the better.

Trey's ability to read people had come in handy at other times, too. Like in the backrooms of more than a few seedy bars in Reno. Ones that didn't require a valid ID. The crap-holes in which the boys had found themselves, occupying what would otherwise have been long, restless nights of empty time, playing hand after hand of Blackjack, Texas Hold 'Em and various other forms of poker—while their mother made her rounds at the casinos.

Ryan was the card counter. He had to be. Trey'd never been much good at it, no matter how many times the process had been explained, re-explained and practiced. It was a skill Ryan'd found remarkably easy to master. Trey? Not so much. The look of concentration that Trey affected when he tried to count cards verged on constipation. Plus, his lips moved.

But, for all of Ryan's ease at counting cards, he'd always needed Trey for spotting the tell. Both in his competition and in himself. Because Ryan always had a tell. Always. It was part of what made him such a lousy liar. Something he'd learned for the first time when he was seven. When he'd been trying to convince his father that he'd left his jacket at school—even though Ryan knew that there was a slight chance that he just might have left it on the playground. Because, while he was almost certain it was hanging on the peg next to his cubbyhole, he could also sort of picture himself taking it off before playing football with a bunch of his classmates after school on Friday.

After Ryan'd finally confessed that he didn't know the exact location of the missing jacket, he'd been sent off with a stinging cuff across his ear and a few choice words. He'd started off on the tortuous half-mile trek to the schoolyard, uncertain of whether it would be better, or worse, if the jacket was there. Trey'd caught up with him within just a few blocks—and chastised him for making it too easy.

_"What—exactly—am I making too easy?"_

_"Dad. You make it too easy for him to tell when you're lying."_

_"I wasn't lying."_

_"Yeah, well, you weren't exactly telling the truth, either."_

_"I think I left it at school. I'm just not positive."_

_"I know. That's what I'm talking about."_

_"What?"_

_"You. When you're not sure—or when you're lying—"_

_"I don't lie, Trey."_

_"Oh, c'mon, Ryan, everybody lies."_

_"I don't."_

_"All right, fine, whatever. That's not even the point. When you're nervous—it's just something you do."_

_"What is?"_

_"Your right foot. Well, the toe of your right foot, anyway—you kind of twist it around when you're nervous—and you can tell you're not telling the truth."_

_"I wasn't lying."_

_"Jesus, Ryan, get over it, dude. Who gives a shit? I'm just trying to help you get Dad off your back. Take it or leave it—whatever—"_

It was just a few weeks later, when their mother found a pack of stolen cigarettes hidden in the back of Ryan's dresser and held it up in front of the boys—demanded to know who'd taken it—that Ryan noticed his right foot start to move—seemingly on its own—and he'd consciously shifted his weight to plant it more firmly on the ground—kept his mouth shut—and almost let his brother take the fall for something he had not done.

Of course, the toe twist was soon replaced by a left thumb that hooked a belt loop, which, in turn was replaced by a right hand shoved deep into a front pocket—and a dozen other little gestures over the years that followed. Some—some to which Trey alerted him, but others—others he'd spotted on his own. He'd gotten better at reading his own tells over the years. Like the way he'd begun fidgeting with the cuff on his wrist in the weeks before his mom threw him out of the house—before she'd moved—before she left him with the Cohens.

But, he was only really good at spotting the obvious ones. The subtle ones—like the way he used to replace the chalk, face down, when he wasn't overly confident in his shot—the way he used to slow play his best hands at Texas Hold 'Em—or even how he'd fiddle with a chip when the blackjack count was decisively in his favor—for those he needed the expert. For those, he needed Trey. He needed Trey to figure out what he was doing wrong now. And Trey just wasn't here.

The first time Sandy'd busted him for the cigarettes was right after his mom took off. Well, after she took off the second time. When she'd ditched him with the Cohens. She'd left him a couple of smokes out of her pack—a goodbye present or something, since she obviously wasn't planning on sticking around until he woke up. He hadn't thought anything of them. He'd left them on the bedside table, where someone had found them. Or must have found them. Because there was Sandy—standing in the den—holding them up, and asking Ryan where they'd come from.

_"My mom. She left 'em for me."_

_"Your mom?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Really?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"She lets you smoke?"_

_"Sure—she smokes."_

_"Well, my mother smokes, too, but she would have tossed me off the fire-escape—nine floors, right down to the alley below—if she ever caught me with a cigarette when I was a kid."_

_"I wasn't going to smoke them in here."_

_"You're not going to smoke them anywhere."_

Sandy'd snapped the cigarettes in two, thrown them into the trash. _"Case closed."_ Well, at least until Ryan bought a pack of his own. Which had been in the week following Cotillion. He'd bought the pack and left it balled up in a t-shirt in one of the wicker baskets that served as his dresser drawers—a t-shirt that must have been mistaken for dirty laundry—because suddenly, there was Sandy, at one of the pool house doors, waggling the pack through the glass—expressing his disappointment—laying down the law.

_"When we decided to become your guardians, Kirsten and I effectively stepped into the place of your parents, of Dawn—and I know that your mom let you smoke. But you're no longer with her. You're a member of this family, now—and this family has rules, kid. Different rules than the ones you're used to—and one of those rules, Ryan? Well, there's no smoking in this house—or anywhere else. Period."_

And Ryan'd respected that rule. Right up until the next time his cravings got the better of him—which was when Donnie shot Luke. He'd made an excuse to leave Seth in the waiting room and bought the cigarettes while he was waiting for Sandy and Kirsten to show up at the hospital—after he'd spoken with the police—when he was sure he was going to be kicked to the curb. He'd chain-smoked his way through three, standing outside the hospital, waiting for the black BMW to pull up. He almost didn't even care if he got caught, since he was entirely convinced that he was going to be thrown out of the Cohens' house, anyway. The bust came the next afternoon, when he'd come into the kitchen—found Sandy sitting at the counter, the cigarette pack conspicuously placed right in front of him.

_"You're not making this easy, are you, kid?"_

_"I'm sorry."_

_"It's not a matter of being sorry, Ryan. Hell, it's not even just a matter of following our rules. Don't you realize that every time you buy a pack of cigarettes, you're breaking the law—and violating the terms of your probation?"_

_"I—I guess I hadn't thought of it that way."_

_"In the past week alone, you were at a party where minors were drinking alcohol. You were hanging out with a kid who has a felony record—and an illegal firearm."_

_"I didn't know Donnie had that gun."_

_"Yeah, I know. You also wouldn't have gone to that party if Seth hadn't called you. I get all that. But, you've got to start thinking about stuff like this, Ryan. You've got to start using your head, kid."_

_"I know—I know. I'm sorry. It won't happen again." _

And it didn't. Not for several weeks. But, the next time he succumbed to the urge—the very next time he'd stuck a pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket—he was caught right away. It was right after he was suspended from the soccer team—after he'd illegally tackled Luke—and after he'd relapsed following a tough several weeks in which he'd gone to Tijuana, dealt with Marissa's overdose, almost blown his chance at getting into Harbor, seen the full force of Mrs. Cooper's seething hatred of him and started the school year at a place where he got his daily doses of sneering looks, loud asides, snide remarks, and painful brush-bys. The pack had been laying in the middle of his bed when he got back from school—the day after he bought it.

_"You realize that this is a real problem?"_

_"I know—I—it won't happen again."_

_"That's what you said the last time."_

_"I'm sorry."_

_"That—Ryan, you said that, too. Forget our rules. Forget your probation. Don't you know what smoking can do to you? Haven't you heard of cancer—heart disease—lung disease? I mean—is this something you need help with, kid? Do we need to bring you to a doctor—have him prescribe something for you—for this?"_

_"No—no. Seriously, Sandy. It won't happen again. I swear."_

It was when he was making that promise—as he was in the middle of twisting his cuff on his right wrist with his left hand that he realized that he had a tell—well another tell. In some subtle way, he was announcing every time he bought a pack of cigarettes. Because, somebody knew. There was just no way that he could be busted within a few hours on each of the three lousy times he'd bought a pack of cigarettes. There had to be something that was giving him away.

It didn't take him long to figure out who was on to him either. At first he was convinced it was Sandy. But, apparently Sandy'd just been left with the cleanup detail. Because the very next time he bought a pack—during the holidays when he'd almost been killed by Gattas—the day after his brother told him that they were done and that he shouldn't visit again—he was caught. And he shouldn't have been caught. Because he'd been so careful. He'd hidden the little red box in the inside pocket of a suit jacket that was still in plastic from the dry cleaners. There was no fucking way anyone could know that it was there.

Except—except at dinner that night, she'd caught his eye, and frowned disapprovingly. Ryan'd swallowed hard and felt the blood rush to his face. His heart accelerated in wild anticipation of what he assumed would be the dire repercussions of going back on his word—yet again. When he'd finally regained some of his composure, he realized that Sandy was still talking animatedly about the Cohens' Thanksgiving fiasco, ribbing Seth about his _"trouble with the ladies,"_ and trying to engage Ryan in the banter.

So, Ryan knew he'd been busted, but not turned in to Sandy. Which made no sense. No sense at all. Unless his next slip-up would also be his last. When he got back to the pool house, he realized with annoyance that he was trembling just a little—his hands were shaking ever so slightly as he opened the closet door, lifted the plastic and checked the jacket pocket. But, the pack of Marlboros was right where he'd left it. So, his intuition was right. She'd picked up on his tell, but hadn't found them yet. Hadn't yet turned him in. Not that he could smoke them anymore, anyway. Because, he couldn't. Not if she knew. So, he'd tossed them the next morning, and he hadn't bought another pack. Not yet. Not that he hadn't wanted to. Not that there weren't times he hadn't fucking _needed to_—like tonight. Tonight, he needed nothing more than he needed a fucking smoke.

Turning his head, Ryan rechecked the clock.

_Shit_!

It was closing in on six o'clock. Knowing that sleep just wasn't in the cards, he sighed heavily, blew a long puff of air that lifted his bangs and rolled out of bed. He flipped on the light and made his way to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, he left the bathroom, showered, cleanly shaved, but not much refreshed.

As he came back into the main room of the pool house, he was only moderately surprised to see Sandy sitting in the chair by the door, two cups of coffee in hand.

"Hey, I hope you don't mind. I saw that your light was on."

Ryan shrugged and reached for the cup as Sandy extended it towards him.

"Thanks."

Sandy nodded towards the bed, and Ryan sat, taking a small sip—and setting the coffee on the floor by his feet.

"Kid—you know we've gotta talk."

As Ryan slowly nodded, he instinctively grabbed his right wrist loosely with his left hand. He rubbed it a couple of times, before he even realized he was doing it. Stopped. Felt just a little bit naked without the wristcuff there.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As Rosa waited for the bus to take her across town, she couldn't help but think of Ryan—and wonder how, or even if—he'd survived the night before. She carried such a special place in her heart for the boy—she always had, ever since that first night, when he'd followed Mr. Cohen into the pool house. He'd looked so uncertain—so lost, so young. And, he'd been so polite—something she hadn't expected when Mrs. Cohen asked if she could stay for just a few more minutes—a half-hour at the most—to help her make up the pool house for the boy Mr. Cohen had brought home.

She'd taken an instant liking to him—after he'd included her by meeting her eye and giving her a slight nod—in his thanks to Mrs. Cohen. It was such a rarity in the Cohens' home that she was even acknowledged, much less thanked, by a guest. So, coming from a boy who had been thrown out of his home by his own mother that very same evening—Mr. Cohen's client—it was unexpected, appreciated, and noticed.

Rosa had worked for the Cohens for five years—since Gus died. She was there almost every day. Dusting, cleaning, cooking. She knew that her presence barely registered—conversations seldom, if ever, paused as she slipped in and out of the mansion's many rooms during the course of her day. So, she knew all about the boy—all about his past—his family—how he'd come to live there—the Cohens' current frustrations with him—and the events of the night before.

She knew that part of her attachment to him was in how much he reminded her of Gus—Agustin—her late husband. He was from Trancas. He'd made the river crossing with his parents over the border in Lajitas when he was just a young boy. They'd settled first in Austin—stayed for a few years—until his father had run off. Gus' mother waited the better part of a year for her husband's return. Then, when it became evident that he wasn't coming back, she'd boarded a Greyhound bus and taken Gus to California, in search of a new life—a better life. But, ultimately, Maria was ill-equipped to handle the rigors of being a single mother. She'd started drinking more heavily right after they settled in San Diego—died of liver disease when Gus was just sixteen. Leaving him alone. Much like the boy.

The boy—Ryan—he resembled Gus, physically, too. Gus had been a compact, but powerful man. He'd made a decent living as a day laborer—built a reputation by being reliable, strong—a competent and hard worker. Which just made it all the more painful to see him in the end—after the cancer got to him—his once strong body shriveled up, wasted away to almost nothing.

She could not let that happen to the boy. She _would not_ let that happen to the boy. She'd smelled the smoke on his clothing that first night. She'd watched as he slipped out to light up a cigarette several times during those first few weeks—before the Cohens had taken him in permanently. She sees how—even now—he struggles when he's under stress.

So, last night, she'd made excuses to stay late. She'd even shooed Mrs. Cohen out of the pool house—when she'd stopped by to tidy up. Rosa had already taken care of it. Not that there was much to take care of. Ryan was such a neat boy. But, cleaning up wasn't the important thing. The important thing was that she had checked the money Ryan kept folded in the front pocket of the backpack hanging in the closet. She had counted it—made sure that it was all still there—intact—just like he'd left it.

She'd found his hiding place when she felt something soft through the pocket and assumed it was a long forgotten sock—like the ones she was always finding in Seth's room. This was before she knew how meticulous Ryan was—how unlike Seth. She'd been curious about the money—noticed as he added a few bills to it when he came home from working at the fish restaurant that summer. She'd wondered about the bag—why it was always packed with clean clothes.

Most of the salary and tips he made working over the summer he'd spent. He'd resisted the Cohens' attempts to give him an allowance for a long time. Finally, he agreed to accept their money—apparently made his peace with it—after they forbade him from working during the school year. But, even after accepting the allowance, he never added to the money in the backpack from what the Cohens gave to him. He never subtracted from it for his daily needs.

She'd discovered that he was using the money in the backpack to buy cigarettes shortly after finding the pack that fell out of the t-shirt he'd balled up and shoved in the back of the wicker basket—after the tall blond boy was shot. It didn't take much deduction to figure it out. When she found the pack, she just had a feeling—and played a hunch. Knowing that he would not have used the Cohens' money to buy something that they had so expressly forbidden, she set him up. She arranged the bills in the stack so that the first three and the last three showing were two fives and a ten and she waited.

In the week after Mr. Cohen was punched at the dancing party, she noticed that one of the fives was missing. So, she'd been extra careful in putting away Ryan's laundry. She'd checked everything out as carefully as she could, without being overly intrusive. It didn't take a whole lot of detective work to find the pack under a pile of clean t-shirts. She'd given them to Mr. Cohen. Then—then she'd rearranged the money again and waited. Another five turned up missing after Thanksgiving—after he came back from visiting his brother in prison and looking like he'd lost a fistfight. That time, a casual sweep of his room didn't turn up the cigarettes—but he'd confirmed his guilt in so many other ways—in the way that he'd dropped his gaze when she'd frowned at him—the way his cheeks had flushed—and in how he'd absently played with that big leather bracelet when she shook her head at him—ever so slightly.

Rosa was so wrapped up in thinking of Ryan—in thinking of Gus—that she didn't even see the bus as it approached. So, she startled when the loud hiss sounded and it opened its doors right in front of her. Sighing deeply, she climbed the steps, flashed her pass, and settled heavily into her seat for the long trip to the Cohens' neighborhood.

She'd left the gum for him last night. Partially because it might help—but, mostly because she wanted him to know that she was watching him. That she cared. That someone would know if he succumbed to the temptation that she knew must sometimes seem overwhelming. That he was accountable to somebody. Even if it was just the maid.

Someday, she knew that the backpack would be gone. She hoped it was because he no longer needed it—but feared the alternative. She suspected that he still wasn't entirely certain that the Cohens wouldn't change their minds about him—even though she could have told him differently.

So, after she crossed herself, fingered the rosary beads in her pocket and said a silent _Hail Mary_, Rosa also sent a silent prayer that Ryan had made it through the night without succumbing to his addiction—and that when she arrived at the Cohen home—the newest member of their family would still be there.

The End


End file.
